, animal-like cry. Yet it was the voice of a man and Wunpost
sprang to his feet all a-tremble to gaze on his catch.

"I've got him!" he chuckled and drew on his boots; then tied up the dog
and slipped out into the night.

The dawn had come when he rose up from behind a boulder and strained his
eyes in the uncertain light, and where the trap had been there was now a
rocking form which let out hoarse grunts of pain. It rose up suddenly
and as the head came in view Wunpost saw that his pursuer was an Indian.
His hair was long and cut off straight above the shoulders in the
old-time Indian silhouette; but this buck was no Shoshone, for they have
given up the breech-clout and he wore a cloth about his hips.

"H'lo!" he hailed and Wunpost ducked back for he did not trust his
guest. He was the man, beyond a doubt, who had shot him from the ridge;
and such a man would shoot again. So he dropped down and lay silent,
listening to the rattle of the huge chain and the vicious clash of the
trap, and the Indian burst out scolding.

"Whassa mala!" he gritted, "my foot get caught in trap. You come
fixum--fixum quick!"

Wunpost rose up slowly and peered out through a crack and he caught the
gleam of a gun.

"You throw away that gun!" he returned from behind the boulder and at
last he heard it clatter among the rocks. "Now your pistol!" he ordered,
but the Indian burst out angrily in his guttural native tongue. What he
said could only be guessed from his scolding tone of voice; but after a
sullen pause he dropped back into English, this time complaining and
insolently defiant.

"You shut up!" commanded Wunpost suddenly rising above his rock and
covering the Indian with his gun, "and throw away that pistol or I'll
kill you!"

The Indian reared up and faced him, then reached inside his waistband
and threw a wicked gun into the dirt. He was grinding his teeth with
pain, like a gopher in a trap, and his brows were drawn down in a fierce
scowl; but Wunpost only laughed as he advanced upon him slowly, his gun
held ready to shoot.

"Don't like it, eh?" he taunted, "well, I didn't like _this_ when
you up and shot me through the leg."

He slapped his leg and the Indian seemed to understand--or perhaps he
misunderstood; his hand leapt like a flash to a butcher knife in his
moccasin-leg and Wunpost jumped as it went past his ribs. Then a silence
fell, in which the fate of a human life hung on the remnant of what some
people call pity,